Imitation Prometheus
by brukleflesche
Summary: He is the doctor, she is his monster.


**Disclaimer:** The series _Inuyasha_ and the poem "Speeches for Dr Frankenstein" **_do not_** belong to me in any way, shape, or form. I am using them for _non-profit entertainment purposes only_.

**Rated for:** Adult situations, sexuality, and graphic imagery.

* * *

_Now I shall ornament you.  
__What would you like?_

_Baroque scrolls on your ankles?  
__A silver navel?_

_I am the universal weaver;  
__I have eight fingers._

_I complicate you;  
__I surround you with intricate ropes._

_What web shall I wrap you in?  
__Gradually I pin you down._

_What equation shall  
__I carve and seal in your skull?_

_What size will I make you?  
__Where should I put your eyes?_

—Margaret Atwood, from "Speeches for Dr Frankenstein"

* * *

**Imitation Prometheus  
**©2005 by Kei

* * *

He has created her in the image of a dead woman with whom he was once obsessed. She is not a perfect replica, no, but close enough for him to forget she is only a facsimile. 

For her mind he has mostly placed in a desire to adore and serve him. In his arrogance he inserts within her cranium a learning capacity, and he teaches her.

Yet when she is alone she learns as well. She sees the delicate silken threads draping the space in which she exists for him. He is her creator – god – teacher – savior – spirit – life, but she begins wondering _what she is to him_.

As she absorbs more and more knowledge _including the secret of keeping secrets _she starts wondering and worrying, regretting and resenting. She wants much more than his slicked body slaking itself in her and then disappearing, leaving her with only a white pelt by which to remember him.

The feeling grows that she means nothing. Even the name he gave her has no meaning, written in the basic characters, not the artistic ideograms she has come to comprehend. She realizes that he is only using her as a depository for his aborted lust for that female corpse _long buried bones_.

Anger crawls up her spine and dissolves the concealing flesh. Her fingers dance along her vertebrae in time with the fury beating in her heart. Sinews dangle down, slither across her empty back, and tangle in her hair; dust motes stick to her ribs and stomach.

At night, if he notices her naked bones he doesn't comment on it. Her nails plunge into his back, but his scar tissue prevents her giving him an exposure mirror to hers. She howls in frustration and he laughs, taking it for pleasure. He calls her the wrong name and she wants to crack her skull open.

She is just a doll to him _I don't like it_ and can't break out of the long, narrow box of a life in which he's lain her down. His every whim is another nail to keep her enclosed and still. She feels tiny and helpless, blind. She wishes she could grow big enough to tear the web apart and free herself, so large her foot squashes him and his guts spatter and squelch between her toes.

She looks pensive, and he inquires as to her thoughts, not that he really cares. Unable to resist his command she parts her lips and vomits the glorious hate into his expectant eyes.

And he laughs.

He laughs! _why__ is he laughing at me stop stop stop why won't you stop it hate you hate you die_

His laughter remains long after he has gone and she is entombed alone once more. She slumps, for his caustic amusement shattered her spine and _even now_ the miasma of his breath has begun dissolving her precious innards. She can't get any fresh air to blow it away, and so resigns herself to nothingness.

Later he finds her curled up and exanimate, her sorrow carved on her cheeks. She looks so thin and weak, not at all like he made her. All the lustre has faded from her being, now sallow and broken.

He makes a perfect shroud for her, thread flowing _flowering_ from his fingertips, twining around her, covering the bared skeleton and empty sockets through which he can see the altered, slightly splintered makings of her mind that he himself constructed.

Considering himself a failure, he can't determine the reason why he smells saltwater as he buries her beneath the bed.

**-finis-**

* * *

_NOTES:_

Haven't written a NarKag in a while, so here's a little one. I really don't think it's all that bad; in fact, I lurve it. Gah, Margaret Atwood's poetry is so brilliantly inspiring!

Well, I would appreciate it if you left a review with comments, questions, critiques, etc. Thank you so much for reading.

-Kei


End file.
